


The Things We Do At Midnight

by SLiverofJade



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work, Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, F/M, Hand Feeding, Handcuffs, Humiliation, Mages, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Slavery, Non-Sexual Submission, Nudity, Public Humiliation, Public Nudity, Slavery, Sorcerers, Submission, Whipping, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9688118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLiverofJade/pseuds/SLiverofJade
Summary: Spontaneous magic-users are hunted down by legates and forced into serving the Empire of the Iron Sigil.  One job gone wrong puts sorcerer thief Shyen Larith on the slaver's block, but before she could make her escape, Legate Jorneth buys her and hands her over to Prelate Havarr to be moulded by his cruel hands into the perfect attack dog for the Empire.  Seeing her break under torture, he begins to question the rigid order demanded by the Empire, which may topple everything.Loosely based on the Midnight campaign setting for Dungeons and Dragons 3rd edition.





	

            The merciless sun was cooking Shyen’s brains, her thick, nut brown hair magnifying the effect.  Even the manacles around her wrists were hot.  Right then she’d willingly go with anyone who bought her from Darsath Scofflaw as long as they took her someplace out of the sun.  Speaking of fried brains, the thick-skulled slaver interrupted her daydreams of cool shade by poking her in the back with his goad to get her to stand straighter and show off her breasts more.  Word was some noble or some such called him a scofflaw once.  The moron took it as a name.  Although considering his line of work, perhaps it wasn’t so different from Smith, Weaver, or Baker.  Stifling a sight, she squirmed at the feeling of sweat trickling between her shoulder blades.

            The press of bodies in the bustling market added to the claustrophobic heat.  Shyen couldn’t decide if being on display atop the foot-high platform was preferable or not.  After seeing a guy get stabbed for bumping into a local gang member, the Impure Brotherhood if she remembered correctly, she decided was safer where she was for the moment.  She also resolved to add more defensive spells to her repertoire the first chance she got.  The ability to go about undetected didn’t work at midday with so many eyes on her.  Not that her hands were free to do any casting.

            The stabbing victim was a wizard, a completely different type of mage from sorcerers like her, and retaliated with a fireball.  Now that was something she could have used to avoid ending up in her current predicament.  Although big flashy spells like that drew attention.  Attention in the form of constabularies approaching the fray in the cleared space that shoppers wisely gave them.  Not that thirty paces were any sort of impediment to an evoker, a damage specialist, if that’s what he was.

            The Impure Sister’s (Shyen thought the insistence on naming groups “brotherhoods” ridiculous when they weren’t gender exclusive) tactics relied on stealth and the element of surprise, much like her own skill set.  Wisely, the thug dropped her bloody dagger on the cobblestones and raised her hands.  Jail was better than getting fricasseed.  Wizard, however, was having none of it and let fly.  She dove and it winged her shoulder.  It’d hurt like the Nine Hells, but probably no permanent damage.  He would up for another attack while the two constab tried to talk him down.

            Shyn snorted through her nose.  As complete magical duds, they were sitting ducks.  Bartholomew’s balls, if she were free, all she’d do was run as fast as her legs could carry her.  Only a more powerful mage, any variety would do, could stop him.  Or a legate.  Like the one who ignored the throng, half of which was panicking and the rest watching the show, and called out a warning.

            A sparkling bolt manifested between the wizard’s moving hands, but before he could send it on its merry way, the legate finished his spell.  Either he’d started casting right after his warning, or he was ludicrously fast.  The wizard froze in place and the bolt fizzled out with a faint pop and whiff of ozone.

            Cheers heralded the hero.  They’d be fools not to welcome an enforcer of the Empire of the Iron Sigil.  Any sign of resentment would bring more of them like crows on a carcass.  He held the wizard for the officers to cuff him with spell-proof manacles, then they hauled him and the dazed rogue off.

            _Move along, you did your good deed, now go_ , she mentally directed the armoured goon.  The helmed head swiveled to survey the crowd.  An easy feat considering he stood taller than nearly everyone in the square.  Except for Tolo.  No one was bigger than the troll blacksmith.

            _Please don’t see me_ , she prayed silently.  _Nothing to see here, just another slave._   She’d heard that legates could sniff out mages, but she’d never paid heed to the rumours.  The way his gaze fell on her like a palpable weight made her revisit her stance on the subject.  A bubble of space that people left for him followed as he approached the platform, never once taking his eyes off her.  Not that she could see them through the visor, but she could still feel them boring into her, straight through to her darkest secrets.  If the sweat was a trickle before, it was now a waterfall.  Between the heat, lack of food or water, galloping heartbeat, and rapid, shallow breaths she thought she might faint like a damn lady in those damnfool corsets.

            Darsath assumed the obsequiousness so preferred by members of the Empire, babbling about the “merchandise.”  The armoured giant kept staring at her, which was especially unnerving now that he was closer and were nearly eye to eye, although his were mere glints behind the visor.

            “How much for the girl?”  All her slim hopes plummeted with her heart at his words.

            “Five silver,” Darsath pronounced.  He didn’t know about her illicit talents, so it was highway robbery.  As far as her true worth it was a pittance.  Astonishingly, the legate paid instead of taking what he wanted “for the greater good” or as “recompense for maintaining order.”

            “Will ye be needin’ the chains, m’lord?” Darsath asked as he pocketed the coins the armoured brute handed over.

            “That won’t be necessary,” he replied coolly and the slaver drew the necklace with the keys off his neck to unlock the bonds.  Of course, why would he need manacles when he could stop an invoker in his tracks.  She posed no threat with her minor tricks.  The relief of having the cuffs removed was heady.  Staring at her bare feet and the drop to the cobblestones, she couldn’t force herself to willingly leap into her “owner’s” arms.  He made the decision for her, picking her up with two large hands nearly spanning her waist and set her down on the pavement with surprising gentleness, but she still squeaked in surprise.

            Shyen caught her balance, adjusting to the lack of the weight of the shackles, so she didn’t notice at first that he was casting a spell.  _I’m going to die_ , she thought in resignation.  Before she could contemplate escape routes in her heat-addled mind, the eerie sensation of a cleric’s magic trickled over her wrists, binding them together and forming a lead to his non-dominant hand.  That it was invisible to bot her physical eyes and her metaphysical one was more than a little disconcerting.  He turned and strode down the street, leaving her with the choices of follow or be dragged behind, possibly getting trampled by traffic.  She opted for the former.

            Testing the bonds proved they were as unyielding as the metal fetters, albeit far more comfortable since she could soothe the welts and irritated skin through the spell.  It prohibited her from moving her hands away from each other, but not from getting closer, and it was permeable.  Useful spell for someone who takes prisoners on a regular basis.

            Stumbling along in his wake, she studied the armour and wondered how he wasn’t roasting alive.  Was it a spell?  Or enchantment on the armour?  The matte black and matching mace was standard issue for the Empire, but the heavy protection was reserved for officers.  The gear was well-worn, but also well-tended.  So the lout wasn’t one to hide behind his status.  The flashier and more ornate the armour, the less battle the fighter’s actually seen.

            As they walked she licked her dry, cracked lips and prayed to the gods that he’d give her water before attempting anything nefarious.  Then at least she’d have the energy to goad him into killing her, if necessary.  The afterlife would be preferable to being a so-called “pleasure slave.”  As it was, the original plan was still in place: first chance she was unbound, she could use her hands to cast spells and run.  The witch hunter leading her along was merely a snag.

            The fifth time she stumbled, he stopped and she smacked into him.  He picked her up and slung her over a shoulder.  Too exhausted to do more than grunt in protest, her vision went dim and she wondered how pissed he’d be if she puked down his back.


End file.
